


Sevenfold

by RevenantAvenger90



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9x13, Angst, Be Careful What You Wish For, Blood, Brother Feels, Brothers, Dean just can't win, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Sam Winchester, I am an evil person, I warned you about the Hurt No Comfort, Language, Major Character Injury, Mark of Cain, Not Destiel, Not Samstiel, Pre 9x14, Pre-Captives, Pre-S9E14, S9E13, Sevenfold, The Purge, hurtfic, major whumpage, not wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:24:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1234849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RevenantAvenger90/pseuds/RevenantAvenger90
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hazy green eyes flutter open. White lips stretch into a bloody grin.</p><p>Sam wonders when it was that he last saw his brother smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Genesis

**Author's Note:**

> Genesis 4:15 KJV, "And the Lord said unto him, Therefore whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold. And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him.”

The boxes rattle as he leans back against them. He would be sitting somewhere more comfortable, but tonight, he doesn’t even feel like his car could be comforting enough to drive away the demons that have been released within his mind.

He doesn’t want anyone to see him imploding. It’s bad enough that his brother saw the tiniest glimpse of the hurt while he was too shocked to conceal it. Not that there’s anyone left here except for his brother to bear witness to it.

A black chuckle.

Everyone else is gone, and the one person he has left doesn’t want him. The loneliness is something he thought he’d overcome years ago, but now, it’s a gaping, yawning black maw stretching wide to swallow him whole.

He thumps his head back against the boxes. Something clatters. There’s a tinkle of metal, or glass. He doesn’t know or care which it is.

As he lifts his bottle to his lips, he chokes on a sob-gag-chuckle and takes a drink.

“Wish I were dead.”

SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL

“Dean?”

Sam paces through the Bunker, ears alert for any sound of his brother. Of course, with what he said last night, Dean might’ve decided to blow him off and take off in the Impala, but somehow, Sam doesn’t think he will have done so. With the depth of things as they are, it’s not something that Dean will leave unfinished or unattended for long.

_‘Same circumstances… I wouldn’t.’_

A stab of guilt knifes through Sam’s gut before he brutally forces it down again. No, he won’t feel guilty over this. Letting Gadreel in, lying to Sam, and then abandoning him after it all? No, Dean’s done enough. Still, Sam thinks they might have a case to work, and he’s not going to let Dean’s moping get in their way.

The Bunker is strangely silent.

Frowning, Sam heads to the garage, first. The Impala is still there, shining like new thanks to Dean’s efforts at cleaning her. There aren’t even any keys in the ignition, though there’s a half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the passenger seat, so Sam knows Dean’s been there recently. The garage doors are closed tight. As Sam glances around the room, he counts the cars and Dorothy’s motorcycle: all are in place. So, Dean’s still at the Bunker. That narrows things down a little bit. Sighing, Sam heads back to the library, calling his brother’s name again. No response. There aren’t any legs poking out from behind bookcases or from under the tables, there are no bodies here. Dean’s not in the library. Sam goes searching elsewhere.

The storeroom is empty, also, and the kitchen is as vacant as he had half-expected it to be. The computer room is also void of life save for the whirring of the machines within. From top to bottom, end to end, Sam searches the Bunker for his brother, until he finally pauses, running his hand through his hair as he tries to puzzle out where the Hell Dean’s vanished to. The front door was locked, after all, and Dean’s keys were still in his room where he always sets them.

So where is he?

Sam pauses as a thought hits him, and glances in the direction of the one room he hasn’t searched, yet: the gun range. Dean rarely goes down there on their off-time, since he’s already a crack shot with all their weapons and gets plenty of practice on their hunts. But still, that’s the one place Sam hasn’t yet looked, and that’s the only place there is left.

Sam heads down to the gun range and, pausing before the door to listen for any noise within, he shakes his head.

Why, of all times, is Dean choosing now to go to the range?

Sighing, Sam turns the handle and shoulders the door open.

The lights are on. At first, Sam can’t see much of anything but the normal rows of guns and crates of ammunition. There’s a pistol sitting in one of the booths, field-stripped and freshly cleaned. At first, he can’t see anything out of the ordinary.

Then he hears the wet gurgle, the hiss of labored breath, and a chill creeps down his spine while his suddenly anxious gaze tracks the sound to its source. There. There it is, just the toe of one nondescript brown boot, sticking out from behind a stack of crates at the other end of the range. Sam crosses the room more quickly than he thought he could, and freezes in his tracks. Shock swamps him.

It’s Dean. Of course it’s Dean. But Dean shouldn’t be so pale, shouldn't be shivering, shouldn’t have blood dripping down his chin, shouldn’t have his arms wrapped around his belly like he’s protecting himself. Sam drops to his knees beside his older brother, reaches out with a shaking hand and presses his fingertips to Dean’s jugular to gauge his pulse.

Hazy green eyes flutter open. White lips stretch into a bloody grin.

Sam wonders when it was that he last saw his brother smile.

“What happened?” Sam breathes. Dean chokes out a chuckle, and then spits a stream of blood onto the floor beneath him. Or, tries to. He lacks the strength to get it clear of himself. It floods down his shirt to join the rest of the red staining it.

Sam snaps out of his stupor. In a heartbeat, he’s got Dean’s arm slung over his shoulder, lifting him, and Dean gives a ragged cry before subsiding into silence once more. He cradles his stomach more firmly, hunches over almost double.

“Dean!” Sam exclaims, arms going around his brother’s waist. Dean’s choking again, hacking out more blood onto the floor.

“S-S’my,” he slurs, and God, Dean’s like _ice._ “H-Hur’s.”

“Where are you injured?” Sam demands, dragging Dean toward the door. They have to get Dean to a hospital _now._ “How long’ve you been bleeding?”

Dean’s disturbingly silent.

God, this can’t be happening. It just can’t be happening.

“Cas!” Sam shouts as he drags Dean out into the library, heading for the garage. “Cas, help!”

No reply. Maybe Cas is hurt, too.

Dean chokes on blood, and his legs give out. Sam’s heart is racing. Bending, he hooks his hands underneath Dean’s armpits and starts dragging him towards the garage. Dean might not like the fact that they’re going to mess up the Impala’s upholstery, but Sam figures that Dean’s life might be a little more important, at this point.

As soon as Dean’s loaded into the Impala’s passenger seat, Sam bolts back into the bunker for his keys and phone, and within seconds, they’re roaring out of the garage and flying down the road.

The nearest hospital is 17 miles away, about 23 minutes on a normal day. At the speed Sam’s going, he makes it in about 10. The entire time, Dean just keeps fading and fading, looking more and more listless and coughing up more and more blood. He stops shivering sometime past the 10-mile marker. Sam’s older brother eventually closes his eyes and just rests against the window, blood dripping all down the inside of the door.

Sam pulls into the emergency lot and jumps out of the car. Later, he’ll never remember the drive there, or how on Earth he managed to get to the passenger door so quickly. All he will remember is how cold Dean is, how much blood there is, how Dean’s not responding, and how tiny and frail his brother suddenly seems. Sam’s fingers leave white marks on Dean’s exposed skin, white marks that don’t fade.

“Help!” he screams as he drags his brother into the emergency ward. “Someone, help!”

Sam will never remember the flurry of nurses, afterward, will never remember the dazed way he answers their questions. He will only remember how lifeless Dean looks as they load him onto a gurney and rush him off to triage and surgery. He will only remember that the last he sees of Dean is his brother’s glassy green eyes cracking open, meeting his, and a weak smile quirking his brother’s white lips. Then the expression fades. Dean goes completely still, eyes half-lidded and staring, and Sam feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. The nurses spirit Dean away, shouting commands.

Sam’s knees give out as his world implodes.


	2. Sevenfold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Cas discover something sinister.

The night is a long one. Sam curls up in one of the hard plastic chairs and tries not to think about the blood smeared all across his clothing, tries not to think about the ice of his brother’s skin against his. He tries not to look at the ER door every 10 seconds, but when every second is an eternity, it’s hard not to feel each and every tick of the red hand of the clock on the wall. One of the nurses comes over and tries to get Sam to go shower, go change, go get some water or something. Sam hardly hears her. All he can do is remember.

_blood blood blood slick sticky red clinging smearing coating covering_

Sam gulps back bile and glances anxiously down at his phone.

“Cas, please,” he whispers, running one rusty thumb across the screen of his phone. “Please, please, we need your help. We need your help bad. Please, just call.”

Nothing happens, though, and Sam sighs and sets the phone back down on his thigh. His gaze drifts to the ER door for the fifth time in a minute. He swallows and looks away again.

_‘No, Dean. I wouldn’t. Same circumstances… I wouldn’t.’_

His eyes are burning.

“Mister Winchester?”

Sam looks up. Scans the face of the surgeon, and in a heartbeat, he’s standing. “Is he okay? Please, just tell me he’s okay.”

But the woman’s face is grim.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and Sam’s blood turns to ice. “We’ve done all we can, but it doesn’t look good.”

She gestures to the seat, and Sam sinks back down onto hard plastic. His head’s swimming.

“He’s lost quite a bit of blood,” the surgeon continues, sitting down beside him. “We’ve given him three transfusions already, and he just keeps coughing it up.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Sam asks, dazed. “How is he injured?”

The surgeon shakes her head. “There isn’t any injury, Mister Winchester. Your brother’s stomach has hemorrhaged massively. We can’t pinpoint the cause.”

“Is he conscious?”

“Not right now. He woke twice while we were operating on him. We finally sedated him, but he still woke up a third time. He’s resting, now.”

He doesn’t process it well.

“Any idea when he’ll wake up again?” Sam’s more anxious than he would like to admit, but even if he’s pissed to Hell at Dean right now, he knows that he’s worried because it’s _Dean._ A horrible thought crosses his mind. “If… _If_ he’ll wake up again?

The surgeon shakes her head. “I have no idea. Frankly, it’s a horrible miracle that he was awake in the first place.”

Sam swallows bile again and nods.

“Thank you… When can I see him?”

“I’m afraid you can’t, Mister Winchester.” The surgeon looks compassionate, if nothing else, but Sam’s still stuck on _you can’t._ “The risk of infection is too high. He’s too fragile, right now. If you want, you can watch him through the window, but he’s not having any visitors.”

Sam feels himself nod again. The word is a croak. “Where?”

He follows the surgeon to the ICU, where she leaves him in front of a large window looking into a sterile room. There’s only one bed in this room; there isn’t any space to accommodate any other beds, what with all the medical equipment cluttering the area. Sam recognizes some of it: an EKG, respirator, dialysis machine, so many IVs delivering water, nutrients, and blood, and so many more machines. Sam almost can’t see Dean among the forest of tubes and wires, but what he can see, he wishes he couldn’t.

Dean looks dead.

It isn’t true, of course, or else the machines would be blaring out warnings and screaming death to the world. Beside him, the surgeon is quiet as she watches him watch his brother.

Is this how Dean felt, watching Sam die slowly after the aborted Third Trial? This helplessness, this ache inside… this is something Sam hasn’t felt since Lilith’s Hellhounds ripped his brother to shreds before Sam’s eyes. It’s something he hasn’t felt since he realized Dean was gone, blown to fuck-knows-where alongside Cas and what was left of Dick Roman.

God. _Dean woke up twice on the operating table._

Sam finally chokes, bile rushing up his throat, and he bolts off toward the men’s room, ignorant of the surgeon’s cry of surprise behind him. He doesn’t know how it is he makes it there without running someone over, but he’s bent over a toilet in a stall, heaving his guts out, and he doesn’t care, because _Dean woke up twice._

Dean woke up twice while he was under the knife. The kind of fear that must have induced in his brother makes Sam shiver. His own memories of Hell are filled with fire and brimstone, two angry Angels with knives and brands and all manner of torture instruments.

Michael wasn’t cruel enough to torture him like Lucifer did, but he didn’t help Sam, either.

And Lucifer, though he enjoyed seeing Sam writhe in agony, was, surprisingly, nowhere near as cold and methodical as Alistair had been.

Sam retches again.

SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL

It’s seven in the morning when Cas finally calls. Sam’s still curled up in the bathroom stall, unable to keep anything down for longer than an hour, and he can’t bear to go out and watch his brother die. He told the surgeon he was fine, when she came in looking for him. Lie.

_“Sam.”_ Cas’s voice is a comfort: tobacco gravel, ocean-deep, millennia-wise, phone-tinny. _“I heard your prayer. What’s wrong?”_

“Cas,” Sam croaks, and leans his head into his hand. “Cas, we need you. Dean’s in bad shape.”

_“Where?”_

“Smith County Memorial,” Sam rattles off, “Smith Center, Kansas. I’m in the men’s room, first floor.”

A rustle of wings, and Sam sees Cas’s shoes and the hem of his trenchcoat from underneath the door to his stall.

“Sam?”

“Here,” Sam rasps. The door swings open, slowly. Sam gazes up at Cas, acid churning in his stomach, and realizes that there’s blood on Cas’s shirt. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Cas replies, and he kneels beside Sam. “You’re sick.”

“Cas.” Sam’s stomach churns again. “It’s Dean.”

Cas’s pale brow creases a little. “What happened?”

Sam swallows. Slowly, he explains how he found Dean on the gun range floor, how he was choking on blood, how he was ice-cold, how the surgeons can’t find an injury to operate on. He tells Cas about how hurt Dean was the night before, what they said to each other, how Sam said that, had the circumstances been the same, he wouldn’t have saved Dean.

“He misunderstood,” Sam concludes miserably. “I know what he wanted to hear was that I’d make the same mistakes he did, for his sake, that I’d drag him back from the edge. But I wouldn’t, Cas. I wouldn’t, because who would want to stay here when they could see all their loved ones again?”

Cas is quiet for a moment. Then he sighs and presses his fingers to Sam’s sweaty forehead. Sam’s stomach calms instantly.

“And now, Dean’s dying.” The angel’s words make Sam’s stomach churn again. He nods, helpless.

“And the last thing I said to him was that I wouldn’t make the same sacrifices he has,” he whispers. His throat constricts instantly. Dean’s heartbroken green gaze floats before Sam’s eyes, shortly followed by pale skin and blood blood _blood-_

Sam leans over the toilet and pukes again. Cas hovers for a moment. Then he vanishes. The puking dies off. Sam hears water running, only for Cas to return a second later with a Dixie cup of water and a paper towel. Sam rinses gratefully and wipes his mouth.

“Is there anything you can remember?” Cas queries as Sam sits back a bit. “Anything that stands out as strange about Dean the night before you found him?”

Sam huffs out a bitter chuckle, shakes his head. “No, nothing…”

Then he pauses, the image of the harsh lines of a raised scar floating to the forefront of his mind.

_‘What happened to your arm?’_

_‘Oh, uh, that’s a, uh… a gift from Cain.’_

_‘Like… the wrestler?’_

_‘Heh. I wish. That would be awesome. Uh, no, the uh… the Old Testament dude. He got all Biblical on me and gave me his Mark.’_

“The Mark of Cain,” he murmurs. Cas stiffens.

“What?” he demands. Sam looks up at him.

“Dean and Crowley tracked down Cain to get his help with killing Abbadon,” Sam explains, a chill creeping down his spine as he takes in the alarm on Castiel’s visage. “He marked Dean, somehow.”

Cas paces through the men’s room, hand on his chin, looking more distressed than Sam has ever seen the angel look before.

“Cas, what is it?” Sam asks. Castiel shakes his head.

“The Mark of Cain was the mark that God placed on Cain after he murdered Abel.” Cas’s voice is as grim as his visage is. “It was so that anyone who saw him would know not to harm Cain, or they would face the consequences.”

A shiver runs down Sam’s spine.

“What do you mean?” he demands. “I thought you said that the Bible gets more wrong than it does right.”

Cas shakes his head. “This was one of the things that it got pretty accurate.” His blue eyes bore into Sam’s green ones. “And the Lord said unto him, Therefore whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold. And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him.”

“King James,” Sam recognizes. “Sevenfold vengeance? But what about killing him? It doesn’t say anything about hurting him.”

“One of the inaccuracies.” Cas runs a hand through his hair. “It was whoever hurt Cain, since to kill him, they would have to hurt him.”

Sam’s cold on the inside. “Would emotional hurts count?”

Cas’s gaze is icy and fearful. “I’m afraid so.”

The breath rushes slowly out of Sam’s lungs.

“There’s nobody who can hurt Dean like I can,” he realizes.

Cas nods, solemn. “And there’s nobody who can hurt himself like Dean can.”

As they stare at each other, Sam feels his world crumbling for the second time in less than a day. It might be unintentional, but it’s the truth, even if neither of them can acknowledge it.

The Mark is killing Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know... Update already, right? No more cliffies?
> 
> ...Commentary is always welcome... I appreciate seeing what everyone thinks.


	3. Cain and Abel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come full circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was going to try to finish this before tonight's episode, but RL got in the way. Sorry!
> 
> One more chapter to go!

Cas is gone, for now. Sam’s finally cleaned himself up, and all he’s waiting for, now, is for Cas to return with a clean change of clothing. Right now, Sam’s standing at the observation window, watching the shallow rise and fall of Dean’s chest beneath the thin hospital gown. God, but his never seen his older brother look so frail, before. Even when Dean’s heart was damaged during that rawhead hunt all those years ago, Dean had still stubbornly tried to hide the weariness and pain he had been in. Now, all there is is the paleness of Dean’s skin, the bluish hue of his lips where they’re closed around the breathing tube and stomach pump, and the stream of crimson where blood is constantly being pumped out of his still-bleeding stomach. Where there has always been strength, there is now only frailty.

Sam’s phone rings. His eyes never leave Dean as he pulls it from his pocket and answers.

“Cas,” he greets the other, numb with shock and pain and horror.

_“Sam. You said that you found him sitting in the gun range, correct?”_

Sam frowns, directing his attention to Cas.

“Yeah, why?”

_“Where in the gun range was he?”_

Sam thinks back. It’s surprisingly difficult to recall, but eventually he finds his answer. “He was sitting behind some crates near the back. I almost missed him. Would’ve, if I hadn’t heard him choking.”

There’s a pause, and Sam can hear the clink of something metallic, or maybe glassy, in the background. Then Cas releases a muffled oath.

_“These crates contain a number of cursed objects.”_ Sam’s heart leaps into his throat as the statement worms into his brain. _“One of the boxes is open.”_

“What’s in it?”

_“Nothing,”_ Cas replies. _“It’s empty, but it looks like it had some kind of a bottle in it. There’s another bottle open, too, but I can’t tell what was in it.”_

More details rush back to Sam, details he hadn’t realized he had noticed at the time. Dean had had a bottle sitting beside him on the floor. Sam had hardly taken notice of it in his shock and panic over Dean’s state, but he remembers it, now.

“There was a bottle on the floor when I found him,” Sam tells Cas. “I didn’t look too close, though. Is it still there?”

_“Yes,”_ Cas states, _“and it looks like Dean drank half the bottle before it took hold of him. It seems that the curse is designed to kill anyone who ingests the alcohol inside the bottle.”_

Damn it, Dean. “He must’ve been drinking it after I went to bed.”

_“Knowing, him, it’s probable…”_ Cas trails off. When he speaks again, his voice is hushed and dreadful. _“Sam.”_

Ice races down Sam’s spine. “What?”

_“This other bottle… The one in the box. It has Enochian symbols on it.”_

“Warding symbols?” Sam demands. God, this is going to give him grey hair. “What kind of warding symbols? Angel warding? Demon warding?”

Cas is quiet for a moment. Sam can hear the angel whispering something to himself, and then, in a burst of sound, another oath comes across the speaker.

_“It contained a curse,”_ Cas explains. _“A curse on the sons of Adam.”_

Sam’s gut clenches again. “Does that mean sons of Adam in the Biblical sense, like as in mankind in general, or just a specific bloodline?”

_“Specific bloodline,”_ Cas states, and Sam can hear him messing around with the things he’s found. _“It only applies to those descended directly from Adam’s sons: Cain and Abel, and Seth.”_

Sam glances through the window at Dean’s too-weak-too-frail-this-isn’t-him form, and then turns away, breathing deeply as he leans heavily against the thick glass. This can’t be happening. Not again.

_“The curse states that, should one bring harm upon the other, this curse will bring about the vengeance promised and implied by the Mark of Cain.”_ Cas’s voice is hushed.

“Is there a way to break it?”

_“It doesn’t say.”_

Of course not. “Well, what if the one who hurt his brother helps that brother to heal? Would that negate it?”

Cas is quiet for a moment. _“I’m not sure. I’ve never seen anything like this, before, and I’ve never actually seen the Mark of Cain in action. Whenever Cain appeared, they usually sent one of the Seraphim.”_

“I thought you were a Seraph.”

A small chuckle from Cas’s end. _“No, I’m not. I am just an angel, one of the malakhim.”_ He pauses for a moment, and then sighs. _“I’ll see if the Men of Letters have any information about this curse. Keep me updated about Dean’s condition.”_

“I will.” Sam pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up, staring at it for a moment before he tucks it back into his pocket. Then he turns back to the window in time to see Dean arch up off the bed, green eyes flying wide as a seizure grips him.

Sam’s screaming for help even before the machines start blaring their alarms.

SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL

He doesn’t care. Sam honestly doesn’t care what the doctors are going to say, now. All he knows is that Dean’s all but gone, and he’s not going to let him die alone. What will happen to Dean’s soul, anyway? Sam wonders. It used to be that he was sure that Dean would end up in Heaven once he died, but now that Dean has the Mark of Cain on him, Sam has to wonder whether or not it has tainted Dean’s soul too much for him to be accepted there. All he knows is that he doesn’t want Dean to leave this world thinking that Sam didn’t care.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” Sam whispers where he’s slumped in the chair at Dean’s bedside. His mind goes back to the horrible days just before their father’s death, when Dean was comatose in the hospital and completely unresponsive. “I don’t know if you’re doing the whole out-of-body thing like you were before, or if you’re in there and you’re just unconscious. But Dean…”

He sighs, and goes silent, not sure of what he wants to say.

God, they’ve made so many mistakes. Him, Dean, and Cas all have made mistakes. Mentally, Sam lists them all.

His own sins pile up before his eyes: abandoning Dean and Dad, bringing death to Jess, failing to save Dean, failing his brother over and over, Ruby, Lilith, the Apocalypse, Lucifer, forgetting the pie- wait, that wasn’t a sin- all the things he did while he was soulless, hurting Dean, letting the vampire turn Dean, letting Bobby die, not searching for Dean after he went missing, leaving Amelia, failing to close the gates of Hell… So many things are on Sam’s shoulders.

And Cas? Where does that list even end?

But Dean… Dean, Sam can admit to himself, Dean hasn’t fucked up as often or as consistently as Sam has. When he said those things to Dean the other night, Sam had said them with the intention of hurting his brother. He knows that, now. He’d let his own anger blind him to the truth of matters, and now… Now, Dean’s paying the price for it.

So what if Sam has a point about the possession? That doesn’t cancel out all the good Dean has done over the years. It doesn’t erase the fact that when Dean was four years old, he gave up any and all chances of a normal life so that he could take care of Sam. Dean changed Sam’s diapers, made sure he always had enough to eat, took up arms to ensure Sam’s safety, almost went to jail for him when he was 16, went to _Hell_ for Sam, and so many other things.

And now, when he thinks about it, Sam realizes that Dean’s been on a razor edge for weeks. _Weeks._ Now that he looks back on the days since they were reunited, he can see the thin veneer of strength that Dean put forth for Sam, for the rest of the world, to fool them all into thinking that he was okay. He can see the way Dean overacted for Maritza and her husband at Canyon Valley, can see the strain in his brother’s every motion, clear as day. He can see the hopeless depression that Dean tried so hard to hide, and Sam wonders how he never saw it when his brother needed him.

“God, where do I start?” Sam breathes, and the air rushes out of his lungs in a heavy sigh as his eyes burn with tears that he can’t shed. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you. I should’ve seen the signs, should’ve seen what you were trying to tell me, and… and I should’ve done something about it. I should’ve let you in, should’ve let you talk, should’ve let you explain yourself. I should’ve… I should’ve been your brother, instead of throwing it all away, and, Dean…” Sam sucks in a breath. “Dean… I’m… I’m sorry.”

Dean says nothing. He’s never been good at chick-flick moments, anyway, and Sam’s not helping things. Sam gives a bitter little chuckle and runs a hand down his face. The EKG gives a faint little beep. Its pace is slowing. Sam stares up at it, his stomach a solid block of ice, and then lowers his head into his hands.

After a long moment of listening to the pinging of the machines come more and more seldom, Sam chokes out a sob and reaches out, taking Dean’s hand between his palms, and Sam presses his brother’s callused knuckles to his forehead, and then to his cheek.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

The EKG flatlines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we've already established that I'm an evil witch...
> 
> Please comment?


	4. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's gone, and Sam implodes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was anyone else furious with the end of 9x14: Captives?

Castiel is not one to swear. Indeed, unless he is in the middle of a truly life-threatening situation, or absolutely, royally, pissed-to-high-heaven-and-back, he does not even allow a phrase such as “Oh gosh golly darn” to pass his lips. It is undignified, crass, uncouth, and all-around unattractive. He likes to see himself as a bit classier than that.

“Motherfucker!”

Now is one of _those_ times. As Castiel nurses the paper cut on his finger, he glares at the bottle sitting innocently on the floor, and at the uncorked one squatting, toadlike, on the gun bench in front of him. They mock him. If he did not still have some small measure of respect for his absent Father, he would be taking the Lord’s name in vain at the top of his lungs right about now… but he would never even think of doing that. Sighing, he turns his gaze back to the dusty tome in front of him, trying to push away the mental image of Dean looking frail-weak-dead on a hospital bed.

Castiel blinks as a word swims to the forefront of his mind, seeming to jump out at him from the page.

_LEGATUS_

Why does that word seem so familiar? Castiel looks again, and then shakes his head. No, that is not the word he thought he had read. Instead, the words _LOVE_ and _BLOOD_ face him.

Castiel snorts and leans back in his chair, running one hand over his face. If he really needed sleep or sustenance, he would be flat on his back right about now. Instead, he is being driven to distraction by the fact that, at any moment, Sam might call to tell Castiel that Dean is…

Castiel’s phone buzzes.

His angelic heart stops. With trembling fingers, he reaches over to the device, picks it up, flips it open, and, after checking the caller ID, he fumbles for the answer button.

“Sam?” Castiel asks. “Dean’s…?”

Sam is quiet. Castiel can hear the younger Winchester’s ragged breathing through the earpiece, and it is enough to send chills down his spine.

“Sam?” Castiel repeats.

_“…H-He’s gone.”_

Castiel slumps back against his chair, the phone slipping from numb fingers to clatter on the concrete floor.

The rush of anger is alarming, intense, lightning-quick. In less than a heartbeat, the cursed whiskey bottle Dean drank shatters against the far wall, and the bottle that housed the Curse of Adam would share the same fate, if his powers could affect it. Castiel roars, incoherent, impotent rage ringing through the gun range.

_“GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!”_

The crates of ammunition scatter and clatter to the ground. The racks of firearms rattle as he casts them aside. He goes to sweep the fieldstripped pistol from the nearest gun bench, and that is when he stops.

The pistol belongs… _belonged_ to Dean.

Castiel stares at the components of the pistol for a long moment. That pistol belonged to John Winchester, years and years ago. Its twin, another pearl-handled Smith and Wesson, rests on the nightstand in Sam’s room. The pieces of Dean’s gun are freshly oiled, gleaming in the low light of the gun range, just waiting for their master to return and reassemble them.

Now, Castiel muses bitterly, those hands will never touch them again.

If Castiel had tears, he would shed them. But he has none, so he slowly bends, picks up his phone again, and puts it to his ear.

“I’m here, Sam.”

SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL

Sam’s numb.

That’s all he can feel: numbness, an emptiness inside his chest. Dean’s gone, and he’s not coming back, and God, what Sam wouldn’t give to have his brother back.

_If Heaven’s closed to the angels, is it closed to souls, too?_

That would only leave one place for Dean to go, and _no, Sam can’t think about that, not now._ It’s going to shred him inside, and he just can’t think about it, so he calls Cas. He calls Cas, and tells him that _Dean’s gone_ and he hears Cas lose it on the other end of the line. Something smashes and rattles and clanks in Sam’s ear; he can hear Cas’s roaring rage, can feel his helpless anger, the same desperation and hopelessness that has been festering inside Sam’s soul since he found Dean on the gun range floor.

Sam had forgotten how Dean was his hope.

Now, that hope is gone. Dean is gone. Sam sinks into a chair outside the observation window, eyes fixed on the furious flurry of activity inside as nurses and doctors work frantically to save Dean’s life. But Sam knows the truth of it. Dean’s already dead, has been since Sam told him

_Same circumstances, I wouldn’t_

and there’s nothing Sam can do to save him. It’s too little, too late, and nobody and nothing short of a true, sheer _miracle_ will be able to save Dean, now. Cain’s Mark has reaped its final victim.

Sam shoves his fist in his mouth and tries to keep from screaming.

“C-Cas,” he gasps, and his eyes are burning and he can taste blood, and _Oh God_ he _can’t breathe._

 _“Sam,”_ Cas returns. He sounds exhausted. Why does Cas sound exhausted? Sam doesn’t know. _“Sam, I…”_

He trails off, again, and Sam gives a hysterical little giggle around the gag of his fist. God, but he just wants his brother back. He wants to wake up from this nightmare, run to Dean’s room, and pull his brother into a huge hug, say he’s sorry so so sorry and not let Dean go for a good three days or so, not until Dean starts complaining about personal space and the need to piss in privacy.

_God, DEAN!_

“He didn’t hear me,” Sam chokes out, rocking back and forth on his seat. “He couldn’t hear me, Cas. He never knew.”

Cas doesn’t reply.

“I was cruel to him, Cas,” Sam gasps, and his breath is coming way too fast. “I was intentionally cruel to him, and the last thing he ever heard me say was that I wouldn’t save him.”

And that’s the worst thing.

The flurry of activity inside the room stills. The doctor calls TOD 17:22. Sam’s world implodes.

_“Give him your blood.”_

It takes three repetitions of the command for Cas’s voice to break through the white noise screaming through Sam’s head, but when it finally does, Sam blinks, not sure if he’s comprehending right or hearing right or what-have-you.

“My blood?”

 _“I just found it!”_ Cas sounds excited, almost frantic. _“Quickly, Sam! You have to give Dean some of your blood.”_

“A-Are we even compatible?”

“I’ll make you compatible.” Sam jumps as Cas’s voice sounds from right over his shoulder, and he whips around to stare at the angel. “Love and blood, Sam.”

Slowly, it dawns on Sam, the thing that Dean always preaches about, the thing that’s most important to him in the world.

“Love and blood,” Sam breathes, and in a heartbeat, he’s running into the ICU unit, heedless of the doctors and nurses he pushes out of the way. They just leave him alone, thinking that he’s probably rushing in to weep over his brother’s corpse, but Sam doesn’t care. There’s a chance that he can save Dean, and he’s going to seize it and shake it until it grants him his brother back.

In less than a second, he’s got an IV needle in his vein, and as he sticks the opposite end of it into the crook of Dean’s arm, he tries not to see the way Dean’s not breathing, not moving, not _living._ Cas sets one hand on Sam’s shoulder. The other hand goes to Dean’s chest. The blood flows.

So do Sam’s tears, at last.

He just can’t take it, anymore. He just wants his brother back, _needs_ his brother back, and he doesn’t care who sees his grief and desperation. Cas’s hands glow. One heartbeat, two. Sam reaches out and clamps his free hand around Dean’s palm, and he finally understands _why._

 _This_ is the reason why Dean let Gadreel possess Sam: because it’s absolutely unbearable to watch for a third time as your Most Important Person in the World goes to a place where you can’t follow.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Sam chokes. “I’m sorry, and I want you back. I want my brother back.” He bows his head, pressing the backs of Dean’s cold fingers to his forehead. “I love you, Dean.”

Because sometimes, the words just need to be said.

Nothing changes.

Sam’s breath hitches, and as the tears slide, hot and wet, down his cheeks, he presses his lips to Dean’s knuckles and slowly lays his brother’s hand back down on the blanket.

_We’re family._

_Sammy? Sammy!_

_Saving people, hunting things. The family business._

_Don’t you think for one instant that I would ever put anything before you!_

_I’ve got you, I got you!_

_We’re family_

_family_

_family_

The hand in his twitches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this a glimmer of hope we see?
> 
> Please tell me what you think.


	5. Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath leaves Dean staggering.

It’s quiet. That much is true. Sam’s neck and shoulders are sore, stiff as those of an old man. He feels as though he hasn’t slept in days. Distantly, he realizes that that’s true in every sense: he hasn’t slept since he found Dean in the gun range four days ago. Now, as he leans heavily against the sink in the men’s room and tries to pull himself together for the fifth time today, Sam can’t help but wonder what he and Dean did in a previous life (or lives) to deserve all that’s been thrown at them.

“Fucking Cain,” Sam mutters. His mood is uncharacteristically sour today. Sighing, he leans down and splashes some water on his face. Then he dries off and heads back out to the ward and down the hall to the room where Dean has been recently moved. Dean remains unchanged, Sam finds as he enters the room and reclaims his seat beside his brother. Sam scans his brother’s form, taking in the whiteness of Dean’s skin and the paleness of his lips, the starkness of the dark stubble against the pasty backdrop of his hollow cheeks. Dean’s eyes are shadowed by deep bruises that make him appear sicker than he really is.

At least his stomach has stopped bleeding and he’s breathing on his own.

Sam watches his brother sleep, watches the rise and fall of his chest, listens to the beeping of the EKG, and prays for Dean to wake. All Sam wants is for his brother’s eyes to open. If he can just see his brother conscious again, he’ll be happy.

But Sam’s so tired. He doesn’t know how much longer he can stay awake, and he doesn’t know how much longer Dean will remain comatose.

He just wants to tell Dean he’s sorry.

Before Sam knows it, he’s drifting off, slumping over on the side of the bed, and then, despite his best efforts to fight it, his eyes are slipping closed. It’s too powerful, too alluring. He’s just so tired.

The frail hand on the bedspread clenches in a precursor to awakening.

Sam doesn’t see it.

SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL

_The boxes rattle as he leans back against them._

_He doesn’t want anyone to see him imploding. It’s bad enough that his brother saw the tiniest glimpse of the hurt while he was too shocked to conceal it. Not that there’s anyone left here except for his brother to bear witness to it._

_A black chuckle._

_Everyone else is gone, and the one person he has left doesn’t want him. The loneliness is something he thought he’d overcome years ago, but now, it’s a gaping, yawning black maw stretching wide to swallow him whole._

_He thumps his head back against the boxes. Something clatters. There’s a tinkle of metal, or glass. He doesn’t know or care which it is._

_As he lifts his bottle to his lips, he chokes on a sob-gag-chuckle and takes a drink._

_“Wish I were dead.”_

His head is splitting.

Why is his head splitting, again? Oh, yeah. He drank a whole fifth and a half by himself last night. Makes sense, he guesses. Makes sense that it all would've been a dream. Makes sense that his dream would include Sam seeing things Dean's way, for once, even if it meant Dean would take a pummeling in the process. Makes sense that his own fears and doubts would tear straight into his sleep to disturb even that small haven. Makes sense that he's such a masochist that he would endure all that pain just for his brother to be his brother again.

Something clatters, rattling him out of his hungover stupor. Fuck it all.

Hazy green eyes flutter open. Pink lips stretch into a sardonic grin before his gaze.

Dean wonders when it was that he last saw his brother smile.

“Morning, sunshine,” Sam quips. Dean squints and glares, and groans as the light hits his eyes wrong. “Sleep well?”

“Fuck you, too, Sam,” Dean growls, and pushes his brother away. God, but he just doesn’t have the strength for this, right now.

Sam snorts. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

“You,” Dean retorts, and then winces when he realizes what that sounded like. “Just… Just let me take a shower before you decide to try to be civil to me.”

He pushes himself to his feet, realizing that he was sleeping in the gun range, propped up against one of the stacks of crates that he hasn’t had the chance to sort through, yet. For a moment, the whiskey-dream comes back to him, and he shivers, glancing warily into the top crate for just a heartbeat. Then he shakes it off, brushes past Sam, and stalks in the direction of his room, staggering a little as his arm gives a particularly violent, painful throb. He hisses just a little and grabs it. Then he pushes past it and flees the room before his brother can see.

Not that Sam would care.

Fifteen minutes later, Dean’s showered and dry and halfway to sober when he realizes that he just doesn’t have the stomach for a hunt today. He doesn’t have the strength to face Sam’s passive-aggressive bullshit for however long it takes them to work a case. He just can’t.

Dean sighs, flops down on his bed, puts on his headphones, and closes his eyes. Time to get rid of this hangover the right way. Three hours later, the lights will start flickering, and a case will find them whether they want it or not, but it’s one that Dean _needs_ to do, so he’ll shoulder his gun and pocket his knife and get down to business, headache or no, heartache or no.

But for right now, he just listens his pain away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued in 9x14: Captives.
> 
> Yes, I am an evil, evil author. Yes, you can feel free to hate me. OOOOOOR, you can wait for me to post the "Happy" ending later and reserve judgement until then.
> 
> Comments are welcome!


	6. Alternate Ending: For Good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of everything that's happened, Dean and Sam achieve some measure of reconciliation in this Alternate Ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend listening to "For Good" from the Wicked soundtrack for this chapter.
> 
> "And just to clear the air, I ask forgiveness  
> For the things I've done you blame me for...  
> But then I guess we know there's blame to share,  
> And none of it seems to matter anymore..."
> 
> \--Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth, Wicked, "For Good"

It’s quiet. That much is true. Sam’s neck and shoulders are sore, stiff as those of an old man. He feels as though he hasn’t slept in days. Distantly, he realizes that that’s true in every sense: he hasn’t slept since he found Dean in the gun range four days ago. Now, as he leans heavily against the sink in the men’s room and tries to pull himself together for the fifth time today, Sam can’t help but wonder what he and Dean did in a previous life (or lives) to deserve all that’s been thrown at them.

“Fucking Cain,” Sam mutters. His mood is uncharacteristically sour today. Sighing, he leans down and splashes some water on his face. Then he dries off and heads back out to the ward and down the hall to the room where Dean has been recently moved. Dean remains unchanged, Sam finds as he enters the room and reclaims his seat beside his brother. Sam scans his brother’s form, taking in the whiteness of Dean’s skin and the paleness of his lips, the starkness of the dark stubble against the pasty backdrop of his hollow cheeks. Dean’s eyes are shadowed by deep bruises that make him appear sicker than he really is.

At least his stomach has stopped bleeding and he’s breathing on his own.

Sam watches his brother sleep, watches the rise and fall of his chest, listens to the beeping of the EKG, and prays for Dean to wake. All Sam wants is for his brother’s eyes to open. If he can just see his brother conscious again, he’ll be happy.

But Sam’s so tired. He doesn’t know how much longer he can stay awake, and he doesn’t know how much longer Dean will remain comatose.

He just wants to tell Dean he’s sorry.

Before Sam knows it, he’s drifting off, slumping over on the side of the bed, and then, despite his best efforts to fight it, his eyes are slipping closed. It’s too powerful, too alluring. He’s just so tired.

The frail hand on the bedspread clenches in a precursor to awakening.

Sam doesn’t see it.

SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL

Hazy green eyes flutter open. Chapped lips stretch in a tired grin.

Dean wonders when it was that he last saw Cas smile.

“Dean,” Cas greets him, and Dean blinks sluggishly, glancing around himself to find that he’s lying in a hospital bed, IVs in each arm and probes taped to his chest and temples. Dean swallows. He’s cold, really cold, and he doesn’t know why, but he feels like he’s been hit by a train. And shouldn’t he have a hangover right about now?

“Cas,” Dean rasps, and the weakness of his voice startles him before a coughing fit takes over. He clamps his hand over his mouth and shuts his eyes, choking and choking, and God, why does his throat feel like it’s glued to itself? Something moves, but Dean can’t make out what it is around the red flashes of pain erupting behind his clenched eyelids and the rushing in his ears. His mouth tastes like ash and copper.

What the hell was he drinking? Did they have to pump his stomach, or something?

“Easy, easy,” says a voice, and Dean struggles to take a deep breath so that he can open his eyes. Gradually, his breathing calms, and he slumps, utterly exhausted, back against the hospital bed. He cracks his eyes open. Green eyes meet his. They shine with relief.

“S-S’my…?” Dean croaks. Sam grins.

When was the last time Dean saw _Sam_ smile?

“Hey,” Sam replies, and holds up a cup full of what Dean recognizes to be ice chips. “Thirsty?”

God, is he _ever._

Dean manages a nod. Sheesh. Feels like he’s going to drop off again at any second. As Sam picks up an ice chip and holds it out to Dean, Dean manages to open his mouth, allowing Sam to drop the cold substance in. It brings a brainfreeze almost immediately. Dean screws up his face and powers through it, letting the ice melt on his tongue. It takes a moment or two before he can look up at Sam again.

“Wha’ ‘appen’d?” Dean slurs. He feels so _slow._ Sam and Cas exchange glances. Then Sam turns solemn eyes on Dean. A chill spreads through Dean, and it isn’t related to the ice, isn’t related to whatever strange coldness it is that’s taken over his body.

“I found you in the gun range,” Sam explains slowly, and he looks so _sad_ that Dean can’t help but wonder what it is that he did now to hurt his little brother. “You were coughing up blood. Half dead. I brought you here, and they treated you for massive hemorrhaging in your stomach.” Sam draws a breath; Dean hears it shudder as it rattles in and out of his brother’s lungs. “You died, Dean. Twice.”

Dean takes the news surprisingly calmly. After all, he kinda feels like he died twice. Well, twice more than he already has.

“Feels like it,” he rasps. Damn, but he’s getting tired again. He stares at Sam for a second. Then Dean sighs and turns his gaze away. He’s trying to stay awake, but he just can’t seem to. “Gonna… pass out again.”

The world goes dark.

SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL-SUPERNATURAL

“I’m sorry.”

Dean looks over to Sam as the words enter his ears, and for a second, he thinks he heard right. Then he brushes it off as a figment of his imagination. Sam wouldn’t have apologized to Dean, not when he’s been pissed at him for several weeks, now.

“Dean,” Sam calls, and Dean draws his attention to his brother from the weapon design he’s sketching on a little notebook. Sam’s green eyes are solemn, and Dean knows that Sam’s serious, and he’s actually talking to him, for once. “Dean, I’m sorry.”

Dean’s brow furrows.

“What for?” he croaks, and scratches at the IV tape in the crook of his elbow. Sam makes a little noise of frustration, and glares at the offending hand until Dean stops the scratching. Dean shakes his head and goes back to his sketching.

“I’m trying to be serious here, man,” Sam complains, and Dean sighs and sets the paper and pencil aside, wearily placing all his attention on his brother. Sam really looks miserable, and Dean feels a momentary stab of sorrow before the numbness subsumes it again.

“What, Sam?” Dean demands, exhausted. He doesn’t have the energy for this. He just can’t take another disappointment or intentional injury, right now, and that’s all Sam’s been doing to him, lately: disappointing him.

But Sam’s green eyes are so earnest that Dean finds that he has to soften just a little bit towards his brother.

“I’m sorry I said those things, Dean,” Sam says, quietly, but loud enough that Dean can hear him clearly. “It was uncalled for, and I know… I know you didn’t have a choice. I get it.”

Dean waits patiently for the other shoe to drop. When it doesn’t, he frowns a bit and actually looks at his brother.

Sam looks haggard, his eyes bloodshot, red-rimmed, and heavily shadowed, and several days’ worth of stubble has made its home on his face. There are lines on Sam’s face that weren’t there before this whole fiasco. With a start, Dean realizes that Sam looks as though he’s aged years in just a week.

“But?” Dean queries hesitantly. Sam blinks.

“But what?”

“Where’s the ‘but’ clause?” Dean demands, and he has to admit that he’s confused as hell. “When you say something like that, it’s usually followed by a ‘but.’”

Sam sighs, and it’s a heavy sound. “There isn’t a ‘but’ this time, Dean.” He meets Dean’s eyes, and Dean swallows at the hollowness in Sam’s gaze. “I’m sorry. Almost everything I said was untrue, or at least unfair. If the circumstances were the same, and you’d told me you wanted to live… I’d have done the exact same thing. I know it, Dean, and I shouldn’t have said I wouldn’t.”

Dean’s throat is tight as he nods, slowly. It means more than he can ever say that Sam is telling him this, and even if Sam doesn’t really mean it- _IF_ he doesn’t mean it- Dean’s willing to accept the apology. Damn, but he just wants his brother to be his brother again. No, things aren’t going to be okay right away, and probably won’t be for a long time, no. But at least Sam’s talking to him, again.

“Dean?” Dean’s gaze drifts up to Sam’s again, to find Sam looks uncertain. “Will you forgive me?”

The tightness in Dean’s throat is almost overwhelming.

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean chokes out, even though he doesn’t really feel the truth of the statement. “I forgave you the moment it happened.”

It’s a lie, but neither of them needs to voice that, right now. Right now, all that matters is the relief in Sam’s eyes and the small smile that’s spreading across his lips. That’s all Dean cares about. Even if he feels absolutely hollow inside, Sam doesn’t need to see that.

As Dean starts to drift off, he has to wonder how long it’s going to take before he and his brother are going to be okay again, if ever. For now, he’s just content that Sam’s not pushing him away, anymore.

Dean can rest easy, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the (alternate) end. Hope you all enjoyed this one. I felt that the first one was more in line with what Lady Winchester Luck would dictate happen to Dean and Sam, but this one was slightly happier, I felt.
> 
> What do you all think? Likey? No likey? Maybe-maybe?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm evil, I know...
> 
> I've been stewing over this one for the better part of three weeks, since The Purge aired. So many thoughts, worries, ideas...
> 
> ...Comments are always appreciated...


End file.
